


Crimson And Clover

by WitchHaus



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mafia shit, Multi, Sex Work, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchHaus/pseuds/WitchHaus
Summary: Dorothea Arnault has been working for the past few years to make her dreams come true, when Hubert approaches her with an offer that could fast track her rise, she accepts it and is thrusted into the bloody Fodlan underground forcing her to realize that the world is not what she once thought it was.I am bad at summaries, but imagine all these idiots but as rival mafia gangs and you get to see Ferdinand in a speedolets goooo
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault/Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	1. A Star, Conceived

Dorothea let out a long slow sigh as she slumped down into the black, pleather chair. She kicked her feet up onto the vanity top, the bottom of her heels knocking against its reflection as her foot tapped against the glass mirror.

Reaching down towards her left thigh, she slipped her fingers around the wad of cash that was wrapped within her garter.

One, nine, twenty, thirty one, fifty two.

Her lips pulled into a frown as she leafed through the ungodly amount of ones and not enough 20s.

Ugh.

Releasing the mix of crumpled bills, she let her arms fall to her sides before finishing her count, a mix of crumpled green bills now lay starkly against her white stomach. 

What a day.

She shifted slightly in the seat, so that her pink coffin shaped nails could fiddle idly with the strings that tied her underwear near her upper thigh.

 _Should I stay or should I go?_ The melody played softly in the back of her head as she let her mind wander while she sank further into the plush chair. 

She’d worked in a ton of clubs in her lifetime. From dives to wanna be Bunny Ranches and, as such, has experienced all the good and bad that came with them. But this place had an unexplainable sort of charm and hominess to it. 

The other dancers were generally amicable, everyone tried to keep their drama to themselves and the parties involved. Even after adding a male revue, which had initially caused a bit _too_ much excitement, things were able to settle back down to a relatively calm temperament after some well placed threats from the more senior dancers.

The Manager mentioned some time ago, that the building used to be a relatively popular Burlesque club, back when showing ankles and feather boas were all it took to rile up a crowd. She supposed that explained the club’s overt _Plushness_. 

The main area had a slight “gentlemen meeting his mistress for a _tête_ -à- _tête_ ”vibe”, which was not helped by the bookcases (that as far as she could tell, held actual books), wood paneling on the walls, weighty red curtains that made you want to yank them open, two back lit bar-tending areas, and some very lush VIP rooms.

If she had to be honest, it was probably her favorite place so far. Though she noticed that the “kindness” from the House Mom Anna and Manager, had increased just a little bit after the New Club on main street in Enbarr opened up.

So now, things were always well stocked. Tampons, toothbrushes, soap, fresh towels even perfume and mints in the ladies room were provided every Wednesday night. The new girls all thought this was pure altruism, but Dorothea knew that management had to step up their game if they wanted to keep their top girls. One of whom was her, of course.

Though, she didn’t feel like one tonight.

Dorothea puffed, blowing a strand of hair from her face. She moved her feet off the vanity and leaned in towards the mirror, making sure to keep the loose bills in her lap.

 _Vbbt_.

Her phone buzzed in front of her. She picked it up, and a message flashed against her phone background.

_Be in tomorrow at 8am. Manuela is sick._

She glanced at the clock on her phone.

Fuck.

1:43am.

It wasn't even that late, she’d only been here for a few measly hours and had... done okay for herself. Despite her ambivalence towards staying, she wasn’t too sure if she wanted to call it a night. On the other hand she _could not_ be tired for practice tomorrow, especially if she was filling in for Manuela.

Fuck.

She could hear laughter coming from the spiral staircase that led down into the dancer entrance from the kitchen. A bright orange crop of hair popped up first, followed by tuff of burgundy piled high in braids.

“Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Who tips Five dollars on a fucking room.'' Leonie shot Dorothea a cheesy grin and took her place across from her on the other side of the mirror. 

The dressing room, unlike the luxe main club area, was a pretty standard one. Black lockers lined most of the walls, with mirrors occupying any empty wall space that wasn’t ear marked for storing thongs, bodysuits, shoes and left over Chinese food.

The main room was filled with rows of vanities, back to back and brightly lit with the, to put it kindly, most bluntly honest, lighting possible.

“Citrus, you should be grateful for everything you get! If you complain, there is a chance you will not get more!”

Petra followed behind Leonie, or Citrus if they were going by Dancer names, letting her fingers brush lightly through Dorothea’s hair as she passed by.

Dorothea knew she couldn’t hide the soft pink color that rose to her cheeks when she felt those fingers in her hair and blew Petra a kiss.

“Oh, Crimson, you hair is... a bit messy, did Mr. Dominic come by again today?” Petra’s voice was light and curious as she took her place beside Leonie.

The pink on Dorothea’s face deepened, but this time not out of flirtatiousness.

“Ugh, does it look that bad?” She asked with a quick glance to the mirror. 

“Yes” Leonie said, without even skipping a beat.

She leaned forward, toward the mirror and took a long look at herself. If she were being honest, she looked tired, exhausted even. Really, the past few weeks had been slow here, tonight especially. At least her makeup still looked good? Though Petra (and Leonie) were right. Her hair could use a wash, especially after that _gentleman_ insisted on running his stubby hands through it. She felt her nose crinkle .

_Where was her damn hair brush?_

She scanned her designated “garbage” pile near her chair of discarded outfits of the day(lots of reds, blacks), expensive makeup products (her 60 dollar foundation never let her down, not once), loose assortments of hair ties, shoes, socks (there’d been a thigh high trend in the club, thanks to her), and other daily necessities. But even after pushing her hoard around she couldn’t find it. She could’ve sworn she had it today when-

Oh.

 _Oh_ , she knew.

Dorothea slid back in her chair again, hands covering her face in exasperation.

“Have any of you idiots seen Bunni? I know that bitch has my brush.” her voice was loud with a tinge of irritation.

Hilda, had a penchant for taking things from her bag, locker (should’ve never given her the damn combo) or dressing room space, with a _seriously_ annoying inability to ever put those things back. 

She heard a snort as Leonie peeked from the other side of the mirror with a grin. Orange eyes dancing with amusement. “Girl, she’s in a room with that Renaissance Festival looking ass dude, she’s not gonna be back for a while.'' 

Dorothea, felt her eyes roll and let out another sigh, taking hold of one of the strands of her hair then letting it drop again. That’s fine, she’ll just have to charge Hil for it, especially if she’s the only one having a good night.

In the meantime.

“Citrus,” she purred “can I use your brush?”

Leonie stuck out her tongue and winked, dropping back down out of sight like she was a kid playing the elevator game. A few seconds later, a brush was tossed gently(as gently as Leonie could) over to her side, plopping down onto the carpeted floor next to Dorthea. 

“Thank you my sweet.” She blew a kiss as she picked it up. 

Messy hair, terrible earnings _and_ annoying coworkers? She should just go home and prepare for tomorrow, at her “real” job and just call this night a wash. That’ll teach her to come in on a Tuesday. A fucking Tuesday, what is she an idiot? 

She passed the brush through her frizzy hair, listening to the sound of the strands being pulled, in a most unkind fashion, alongside of the sound of two girl’s chatter, and the DJ's “Top 40 songs for Hoes to get dicked down to” (Honestly, that was the name of the playlist the DJ made for Tuesdays.).

 _Frrpt_. 

She hit a snag in her hair and groaned. 

“Are you sulking over there?”Leonie again.

“No.”

Petra giggled.

“No Sad Bitches, Crimson, only Bad Bitches” Leonie spouted. Dorothea rolled her eyes.

“I just wanna leave though. It’s like almost 2am and I’ve, I don't know? Made the house fee back?”. 

She eyed the pathetic pile of cash on her lap that she still had yet to finish counting.

“You know you’ve made more than that.” Leonie, not content with cajoling her friend from behind a mirror, had made her way over to Dorthea's station and was now resting her chin on her hair.

Dorothea made eye contact with her in the mirror fixing her with the most withering glare she could muster. 

Unphased, Leonie’s reflection grinned back before sticking her tongue out.

Dorothea dropped the brush down onto the dresser counter, figuring it impossible to continue her task. In spite of the previous unruliness, it did look better.

“You’re just being a brat, Crimson, which we don’t need two of; Bunni has that shit covered.”

Leonie was right, of course. 

Bunni filled the niche of bratty rich girl while Leonie, with her absolutely sculpted body, appealed to the typical weekend crowds who were into pole tricks and cheeky, energetic women. It helped that Leonie started as a pole dancer for fitness reasons and just decided to try out a club,saying that she wanted to “put her new found skills to use!”

Dorothea grabbed the brush with a sigh and handed it back to Leonie.

“Maybe you’re right.”

She paused, her face softening into a more contemplative look. She took another look at the pile of cash in her lap, shifting the mess of bills around a little. Ah, there’s a hundred dollar bill tucked in there. Nice.

“I did make more than that, so I’m going home.” Leonie snatched the brush from her and rolled her eyes, pretending she didn’t see Dorothea’s wink.

“Alright, you be the one to tell Anna, you know she charges extra if we leave early”

“Not if I sneak out~”

“No sneaking, there’s a group wandering in right now.” They both perked up at the words, Petra left her post and was now standing next to them looking down at her phone.

“You heard me, text from one of the girls on the floor. A big group too, maybe seven? There might be more on their way.”

GROUPS. Oh! She was good at groups. Better when Bunni was around, they bounced off each other well.

“See” Leonie said, eyes ablaze with the type of determination a high school cheer team would kill for.“Get your game face on babe.”

She slapped Dorothea’s right arm. 

Ow. 

Dorothea shot her a quick glare and rubbed the quickly reddening spot.

“Nope, pants are already on. Sorry babes, you guys take care of them for me.”

Her pants weren’t actually on, but mentally she was fully clothed.

Leonie and Petra stared at her like she’d grown a third tit.

She shot them a reassuring smile.

“And, I have to pick up an insanely early shift tomorrow~”

Leonie, broke first, not one to pass up the chance to make more money, and was already making her way down the stairs.

“Suit yourself.”

Petra still hovering, took a bit longer to drop her quizzical look.

“I suppose... if you are sure, then I will see you later.” she said, disappearing back down into the "war zone".

Dorothea's smile dropped once they were out of sight.

\---

She had a nice enough apartment, a bit expensive. If she was being honest. It was one that she didn’t spend enough time in, to justify the price, though she tried not to think about that too much.

It was nice being home, freshly washed and free of any misgivings that plagued her while she sat in the dressing room at the club.

Her apartment was her sanctuary, a softly lit, two bedroom in the middle of Enbarr. They had a doorman, three actually, a rec area and pet sitter (even though she had no pets). She hadn’t decorated too much, the expense would be too great, preferring the veneer of richness that the Zip Code bought her, and choosing instead to pile her cash up while she bided her time. 

But her fridge was well stocked and she’d piled most of her clothes into the antique dresser she’d purchased from an estate sale. Above the electric fireplace hung a recreation of William Blake Richmond’s Venus and Anchises, So somehow, despite the sparseness it was still pretty cozy.

Her couch, especially, was of the lounging sort. She could never manage to just sit on it, instead she lay on her side, phone in one hand, hair wrapped in a towel and a glass of wine to her lips. 

It was nice, or it should’ve been. She tried to reach for some feeling of contentment before she would finally head to bed, but her nerves buzzed inside of her like she was filled with bees.

Manuela was never sick, that woman had been with the Mittelfrank Opera Company for Goddess knows how long, and had rarely missed a show. It had gotten to the point where anyone assigned as her alternate would immediately protest and demand another role, as the chances of performing was near zero.

Well, anyone excluding Dorothea.

Dorothea remembered the first time she had seen Manuela Casagranda perform. She was still a little girl, no older than nine. Wholy entranced by the voice and figure of the earthly form of golden haired Aphrodite with a beauty mark on her cheek.

She remembered not wanting to spend another moment stuck in a foster home alongside kids she wouldn’t remember and “parents” who forgot her name.

So she waited until they’d put her to bed, in a tiny room that had red race cars painted on the walls and a closet full of mismatched shoes. 

She'd listened for the tell tale sounds of a house asleep and bided her time until all she could hear was the soft hum of the radiator. 

She was good at sneaking out. She’d done it a million times, out of various homes across Adrestia, from 10th floor apartments in the middle of Enbarr, to trailer homes at the edge of the Hyrm Forests. So it took her no time at all to find her way outside.

Cities were the easiest to wander through. So many people buzzing around, hardly anyone paid attention to you. She slipped into an alleyway, passed a few kissing couples, went through a few unlocked doors and quite quickly found her way to the Theater. 

The building was a little harder to get into than others. It was late, probably around 11pm and unaccompanied children weren't welcome after the sun had set. Seeing her chance, she struck up a conversation with an older woman clinging to the arm of her uninteresting husband. Hoping that the doorman would mistake her for being with them, she kept a polite face on as the woman chatted away. Thankfully the doorman ignored her and once the woman turned away she disappeared into the throng of the late night crowd.

She wouldn’t be able to explain why she chose this building. Maybe it was the bright yellow sign that glowed:

“TONIGHT ONLY VENUS DESCENDS ON ENBARR STARRING MANUELA CASAGRANDA” 

Or perhaps the smell of fresh popcorn mingling with cotton candy, that drew her to it, but now that she was inside, She was in complete awe. The whole place looked like it was plucked from Myth.

There were people in costumes resembling the ancient greek gods, along side animatronic Hydras and Centaurs. It felt like the room was spinning as the costumed people laughed, talked and weaved through the crowd.

She swiped a bag of popcorn from the counter, but could scarcely bring herself to eat it as she looked on in wonder. 

_The Intermission is almost over, please take your seats._

The loudspeaker crackled and repeated its instructions two more times. Each time she noticed more and more people flowing into the doors that lead to the main auditorium. 

She didn’t see a sold out sign anywhere, which could mean there might still be seats. She bit her lip and nodded to herself, she’d come too far already. Besides if anyone asked she could lie and say she had lost her parents.

Deciding to let the crowd carry her forward, her body pushed up against the people around her. She made it inside and found a seat near the back on the end of an aisle, close enough to an exit in case she needed to make a break for it.

The theatre settled in and the lights dimmed. A hush grew over the crowd as the curtain slowly drew back, revealing the main event of the night.

What she saw next would change her life forever.

She did not know the story at the time, but she didn’t need to. Aphrodite herself, a bright and shining evening star, descended from the ceiling, sitting atop a crescent moon. Her voice high and clear. There were men and women at her feet; hands raised in supplication, shielding their eyes, beating their chest, growing more frenzied and mad as the embodiment of divinity was lowered towards the ground.

But she never touched the stage. Instead she stayed perched, her long blonde hair, rippling gently in a divine wind, just out of reach as she sang praises to herself in hopes of earning the gift of an apple meant for the Fairest.

Dorothea, didn’t realise it, but she was moving closer as the woman sang, transfixed by the display before her. She wanted to breathe the same air, bask in her presence like those at the Goddess’s feet. No she wanted to _be_ that Goddess. Her beauty, her voice, her devotion. She wanted that for herself.

Unfortunately, a young girl wandering towards the stage was not easily missed.. Her fantasizing quickly cut short when a hand clamped on her arm and she came face to face with a stern but confused security guard.

Once she’d been led out of the theater, she was fortunately able to make up an excuse and weasel her way out of trouble.. But even on her winding way back home, she could not forget the stirring of emotions within her. It was not lessened by the tongue lashing she had received after she failed to quietly sneak back in, nor the threats of punishment, nor the inevitable, but traumatic shuffling to another home.

In all honesty, it still had not subsided to this day. That night had made her free. She knew what she wanted and who she wanted to be. 

Dorothea Arnult was going to be a star.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this so far! I have the word's vaguest plot mapped out and im sure this will be a hot mess, but I am having fun writing it. Thank you to my friends who looked over this for me and please let me know what you think~


	2. Well Laid Plans and all that Jazz

The Mittlefrank Opera Company had seen better days. What was once a leviathan in the arts, was now a half strung puppet dangling helplessly as the years marched by. 

In the past there were several sections that made up the main body of organization, a traveling theater company, ballet school, even a formal Choir that performed at the Church of Seiros during High Holidays. 

As it turns out, a traveling theatre troupe has a lot of overhead costs. As attendance shrunk, so did the amount of locations, then the amount of shows, then the size of the cast. Despite the rising costs, the troupe had not been completely shuttered, but no longer was there travel to Derdriu or Fhirdiad. Instead, the trope now makes a humble circuit to three locations within Enbarr. 

The ballet school, was once _the_ Alma Mater. Having trained many of the continent’s Prima Ballerinas, with many of its students finding immediate success once they left the halls. Their skills known far and wide, renowned even in Dagda. But that was years ago, for the past few semesters, the school had been placed on “A Temporary Hiatus”, the company deciding that it would no longer be responsible for training its performers in house, opting instead to hire performers from other schools.

And the choir. Well the Choir was gone. All but in name anyway. They still sent representatives to perform in other ensembles, for National Holidays, Sporting Events and Galas, but they no longer had the personnel to spare, especially for those multi hour Hymns to Saint Cichol. 

Thankfully the Opera itself, was still going strong. Or at least better than it’s subsidiaries. While they did have some trouble keeping current talent or convincing promising new Songsters and Songstresses to join in (The monthly stipend for new Performers was a joke and there’s been rumors that even the Senior Opera Singers had received a pay cut). The Prestige of being a performer for the Mittlefrank Opera Company was still a powerful draw. It was like having Harvard on your resume. Perform here for a few years and you could sing anywhere in Fodland. 

That promise fueled Dorothea’s determination to scale her way to the top of the Mittlefrank Opera company. Though, powerful as that goal was, apparently, it wasn’t strong enough to wake her on time, or hinder her from putting on two mismatched pair of shoes, or to keep her forgetting her keys in the apartment and having to ask the doorman to let her back in again. Thankfully, the goddess spared some mercy and she managed to make it to practice before she was missed. 

The first thing Dorothea noticed upon her arrival, was the chasm left by Manuela’s absence. You don’t dominate the space within one of the most prestigious Opera Companies and _not_ leave a hole during said absence.

The second thing she noticed was that Annette had saved her usual spot near her in the Soprano section. 

Annette gave a wave that somehow conveyed way more excitement than possible for such a subtle movement in a small space. But before she could take her place, she heard the scraping of a chair and a curt “Ahem”.

“Miss Arnult, you are Manuela’s Alternate are you not.” The Maestro, a man in his, Seventies? Sixties? She could never tell, gave her a pointed look as he gestured towards the space besides him. 

She balked, mid step. 

Manuela’s space by the Grand piano was conspicuously empty. The other performers avoided it, giving wide girth as though it was protected by a force field. Great.

“Ah, yes. Sorry” 

She could feel their eyes on her as she made her way to the chair, heels clicking ominously like a drummer starting off their death march.

Practice proceeded as normal, in spite of the missing Divine Songstress. But it soon became clear, as Dorothea attempted to fill that vacant space, that she was _incredibly_ out classed by Manuela. 

Thankfully, no one quite said it, save for the sidelong looks from Tomas, the Maestro and a few cheeky Sopranos. 

Where Manuela’s voice and stage presence commanded the room, overwhelming and swallowing the listeners, Dorothea could feel herself struggling to even push her voice to where the music required it.

It’s true that she had been diligent in building her voice and technique over the past few years. Compare her to most people in her class and she would blow them out of the water! But, this was a whole new league, one that she could not keep up with.

By the end of rehearsal she felt exhausted, ready to collapse in frustration at her apparent lack of progress.

She was sure she wore her exhaustion on her face, as Annette was kind enough to only give her a “you did your best” smile, instead of the usual barrage of conversation and gossip, before disappearing into the dressing rooms.

Dorothea was thankful for her friend’s deference all the while trying to keep today’s events from consuming her.

She’d come so far, endured so much, built and destroyed many bridges, and for what? Even maintaining her current life style was a task. Finding that she had to be more cutthroat than she imagined, her lifestyle changed her in ways she wasn’t even sure she wanted to acknowledge. Not to mention, working several late nights at the club and having to run to rehearsal in the day time was daily nightmare. 

It felt silly to complain about a life she chose for herself. But, It was hard to ignore how both jobs were physically and emotionally taxing in their own uniquely, destructive way. 

There was a balancing act that she performed at every moment and in every space she occupied. The _precariousness_ of her life, always haunted her in the back of her mind. A dull anxiety that has made her intensely careful, reaching back to her early days at the Opera.

It was the first week she’d started at Mittlefrank Opera Company. Her and some of the newer hires, apprentices and junior members, decided to end their first official week with a drink at Anna’s Pub. 

It was a good idea, with no one knowing their place yet or each other, the atmosphere at the theater had been tense. But thanks to Irish Whiskey and Merlot the awkwardness began to fade, with familiarity and candor taking its place.

There was one person in particular, whose familiarity, caught her a bit off guard. His name was Kelly Johnson, he was a bit of a talker. Well he was a huge talker. Not bad looking, if she was being honest. Close cropped black hair, high cheeks, soft lips and an almost perfect smile. She couldn’t quite figure it out, but there was something about him that she couldn’t shake. A hook up maybe? That must be it, right?

That was until she spotted the ring suspended from a chain, hidden under folds of clothing. If not for that moment he bent over to shoot the pool cue, temporarily dislodging it (then quickly stuffing it back in), she wasn’t sure she’d have noticed. 

She’d planned on tabling the issue in her mind. Spending the rest of the night sipping rosy drinks, talking about favorite TV shows and Cafes, which by all accounts she did. But as the night continued to wind down, he approached her, offering to walk her back to her car. Happy for the escort, she obliged.

Most of the other performers had either left by then or ordered a cab. It was just the two of them and the crisp winter air. The walk back was slightly treacherous, the click of her boots dulled by the newly fallen snow, their smudged footprints trailing behind them in the pile of slush. 

They made polite small talk on the way back, but as they drew nearer to the lot, she could sense a bit of unease from him. He became fidgety and his words a bit more halting.

By the time they’d reached the parking lot, it seemed that he’d had enough of his inner turmoil and decided to put an end to it. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the parking lot, a few feet behind her.

She felt her body stiffen, should she run? A few scenarios flashed in her mind, so she slipped her hand in her pocket, hoping that she still had her pocket knife, but found only her phone there. Great. What’s she gonna do, record him to death? 

Thankfully the silence, didn’t last long.

“This might sound crazy, I think I saw you at the Big Platinum Cabaret, right?”

She felt the color drain from her face. By the time she’d started at the Opera, she’d been dancing for a few months she’d chosen places that where a bit farther and in spots she wouldn’t expect anyone she knew would frequent. But well laid plans an all of that.

She turned to face him. She felt the warm light of the street lamp at her back. His face seemed different under the halo of snow and illumination. Sharper, colder and more and more resembling a monster rather than a man. 

She said nothing and kept her gaze steady.

Undeterred, he took a step forward. 

“I just, I think we’d have some fun together. I mean you’re probably good at a lot of things... the way you moved on that stage. It was just, wow. I just... want you to move for me.”

A smile. She forced an easy smile on her face and took a step forward if her own. It was so cold tonight, and the ground was so slippery.

“Oh, would that make you happy?” Her voice was low, silky, like a spider spinning a web. Another step, closing the space between them and placed her hand on his chest, her left, still in her pocket.

He smiled down at her and leaned in. The perfect distance, for her to knee him in the stomach. 

So she did. 

Caught off guard he flailed his arms like a windmill, trying to grab onto anything he could. But there was nothing but the icy sidewalk, which was now underneath his back as he was splayed out on the ground. 

Dorothea rolled her eyes and crouched down over him, removing her left hand from her pocket to reveal, her phone, which was now gobbling up the scene in front of it. If she couldn’t “record him to death”, she could at least record him till he was embarrassed. A good compromise.

She reached down and he winced back, arms guarding his face. But she wasn’t interested in his face, instead she stuck her hand down his shirt and grabbed hold of the ring that was hidden. Ripping it free from his neck.

“Kelly Johnson, if you start this shit with me again or breathe a word of this, or even look at me, I will send this to not only your wife, but the whole damn Company, you understand?”

He apparently did, because that was the last time she saw him. She counted herself lucky, really. But it had made her a bit (well, a lot) more cautious as a result. Dorothea realized that she had to get crafty; good at slipping secrets out of her coworkers. So she did. 

People were chatty and liked to be comforted, so she made herself available and provided a sympathetic ear whenever she could. She listened to their words, looked at their actions, and search their social media pages, she learned about wives who wouldn’t be too happy to hear of cheating husbands, parents who were ready to disown their cocaine addicted kids, and employers who wouldn’t be too happy to listen to the recording of a potential employee going on a 12 minute rant against Almyraians (okay, those she sent regardless.)

She had created a barrier between her and her coworkers, making sure to keep information about herself to a minimum. The next issue were her Patrons. Numerous as they were it would be impossible to keep information on the lot of them. For her more regular clientele, at both the Club and the Opera, she could at least build portfolios on them, most were wealthy or at least had enough money to keep coming back. 

But in general, it was hard to know everyone who showed up in the crowd, thankfully it was hard for them to know her too. The stages at the Opera were a healthy distance from the audience and clubs were dark so she focused on disguises and misdirection. Never wearing the same thing at both locations, making sure to wear wigs at the club and sometimes even those fake fashion glasses from “Always 25”. 

And with that she had built the great wall between her two lives. Now all she had to do was push herself to reach her dreams. 

“Honestly Dorothea, you are pushing yourself too hard,”

Ernesto’s fingers were still as they hovered above the piano’s keys. It was 3 in the afternoon and most of the other performers had left for the day, but Dorothea couldn’t get herself to just go home, after today’s fiasco.

So she smiled, attempting to sidestep the question.

“Thank you Ernesto, for humoring me.” 

He clicked his teeth.

“I’m being serious, Thea. You’ve made so much progress in the short time you’ve been here.” 

His fingers began moving while he spoke, tapping out a soft but jaunty tune.

“You’ve set a goal for yourself and you are well on your way there, trust me on that, but you need to slow down or you’ll hurt yourself or, more importantly your voice.”

Dorothea exhaled and plopped herself down on the jacquard textured couch. Pulling her gray jersey jacket around her like a shield.

“I know, but unlike most of these guys I don't have a trust fund or a Sponsor to keep me afloat while I slowly grow my voice and make my rise through the opera world”. It was hard to keep the obvious disdain and exasperation from her voice. But if she was being honest, she hated most of these people.

To no surprise, the lack of proper payment or support usually meant that many of her co performers came from wealthy backgrounds. That stipend that they offered meant nothing to these people, when daddy could fund their whole career. Voice lessons since they were 13, classic music classes from world famous composers, and all the support their wealth could give them. It wasn’t fair. 

Ernesto hummed in agreement as he continued to render the tune. His brown hair swaying with a sad smile on his tanned face.

“It is not like Brigid at all. Over there they pay for people to be in the Arts. Or at least they did, before the War” 

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d heard his voice faltered a bit, but he kept going. 

“After that, they cut funding... I think maybe things might be like this over there too. Only the rich can pace themselves, the rest of us must run or we get left behind.”

His fingers stopped, ending the melody on a somber note.

“Oh, before I forget. One of our Donors wanted to speak with you around 3:30.”

Dorothea blinked.

Ernesto grinned as he shut the covers for the piano keys. 

“Maybe, its finally the sponsorship you’ve been waiting for” he winked at her and stood up, the piano chair squeaking slightly as it scraped across the floor.

“Wait, a DONOR?” Dorothea was standing now, eyes wide and mouth agape, having been propelled by the absurdness of the statement.

“Ernesto, why didn’t you tell me?”

He took a step back, hands up in front of him, his mouth holding a sheepish shape 

“Honestly, I kind of forgot. It’s been a hectic day” A nervous chuckle escaped his lips as he watched the Brunette songstress make a beeline towards the dressing room. His composure relaxing as soon as she was out of sight.

  
  


\-------

  
  


_Earlier that Day._

He sighed, taking a moment to compose himself.

Brunch was set for 11:00 am on the dot. Which, of course, meant that he arrived at 10:30. The Hostess, a familiar face, gave him a polite, if reserved smile as she lead him to the usual table. 

He had always found her manner agreeable. Competent and concise. Along with The Chef, The waiter and The Valet. Fortunately, the Owner of the _Marie Louise Cafe_ , was kind enough to schedule his preferred staff whenever he reserved a table here. It did help, that he spent a lot of money.

The hostess left him to his thoughts at a small round table on the veranda that overlooked a picturesque green lake. The table was wrought iron with freshly cut flowers adorning the vase on the middle. Exposed brick walls, arched doorways, candles, pastries, twee cabinets, and a garish pastel color palette, mingled together to create his personal hell, which of course made it Ferdinand’s version of heaven on earth.

Hubert made himself as comfortable as he possibly could on the robin’s egg blue metal chair, and pushed up his shirt sleeve to check his watch. 10:55am. Like clockwork he noticed a burst of Ginger out of the corner of his eye. 

Ferdinand gave the Hostess a deep bow and his, Sigh, most _sincerest_ thanks for performing her most basic of duties. This apparent show of overt praise caused her cheeks to turn a light shade of pink before she hurried back to her station. 

“How kind of you to finally join me.” 

Ferdinand choosing to ignore the statement, took a sip of his water instead.

“I hope those reports I sent to you didn’t mysteriously get buried like the last ones.”

Hubert scoffed, unable to hide his contempt. “Ferdinand if you think I want a weekly update on how _adequately_ you are performing your duties, then you are more hopeless than I realised.”

Ferdinand, never the one known for his poker face, frowned in the most pitiful fashion. He looked ready to shoot off a defence of his work ethic, but was interrupted by short brunette man with a writing pad in this hand.

“It’s a pleasure to see you two gentlemen again, I am having the Kitchen prepare your usual orders.” He paused for a moment. “Unless you’d like to try something else.” The waiter smiled politely, unaware that he had stalled, yet another one of their tiffs. 

“No, no Christopher, that is perfect. Thank you.” Christopher nodded towards Hubert then Ferdinand and walked away. 

“Ah, you’re getting the soup again?” Ferdinand ventured, his irritation, seemingly gone from a moment ago, as he unfolded the strawberry colored napkin onto his lap.

Hubert braced himself. 

The Crepes at the restaurant were prepared Faerghus style, crispy and slightly browned, which was not only the most authentic way to cook a crepe, but the _only_ way one should ever cook a Crepe.

He knew this, only because Ferdinand insisted on telling him every time dined here. Every. Fucking. Time.

“You really ought to try the Crepe here, it really is-”

“Delectable, yes I know Ferdinand. You’ve told me several times before. And I have told you several times before, that I am fine with my selection”

Ferdinand shrugged. “Suit yourself, your palette will never improve if you don't take any culinary risks, Hubert.”

Hubert felt his teeth clamp shut in his mouth, fortunately Christopher arrived with their food only moments later, in another display of impeccable timing.

They ate largely in silence, save for Ferdinand occasionally striking up a short conversation with someone who had “an Interesting shirt” or “spending walking style”. The food here, in spite of the garish decor, was delicious and hearty. And despite Ferdinand’s comment on his culinary habits, Hubtert considered his judgement of food to be pretty high, which is partially why he agreed to come back to this place every Wednesday morning for their meetings.

Ferdinand, was the first to break the silence between them, placing his knife and fork beside his now clean dish. 

“Well since this isn’t about my, what was the word you used, “Adequatet-””

Hubert tried not to leer.

“-performance managing our finances, which have been growing at a steady rate, once the team has implemented my suggestions. Then, I hope you can regale me with whatever new nonsense is on your mind.”

Hmph, fine if he wants to get straight to it, I will.

Hubert straightened up. 

"As I am sure you are aware, our associates have been attempting to gain more ground near the border of Ogham ." he paused for a moment feeling out the next few words like they were poison on his tongue "Our efforts have been... Thwarted at every turn, preventing us from getting the proper foothold to investigate the potential threat on Mistress von Hresvelg’s life." 

He noticed a slight twinge appear on Ferdinand’s lips.

“But one of our eyes on the ground have spotted a few potential targets for information. Like we thought, the club still doesn't have any allegiance to any groups, at least outwardly, so we were able to station at least one Member within, but we need more eyes on the ground. Traditional means haven’t been cutting it.”

Hubert laced his gloved fingers together in front of him and stared pointedly at Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand shifted slightly in his seat. Hubert could see the wheels turning inside his idiotic head.

"so, you want me to... Find someone to go undercover?" 

Ah, what was this feeling building up inside of him? Excitement? Glee? He felt his lips twitch. He He really did try his best to keep the smile from his voice. 

"No, Ferdinand, that won't be necessary. Because the one going undercover will be you"   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February should be way less hellish for me, so I will be able to update more often heh


End file.
